My writing is rooted in images. Words and images, to me, are always intertwined. I write about very brief, but emotionally charged, moments in time. With each word that I use to describe an emotion comes a distinct image. My writing is something like a lens, through it I see how I feel.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

3987 El Prado Boulevard

The powdery murmur of footsteps hatchedAnd filmed over the house floors. A thinning streamOf pattering toes. It smelled of musk,Of perfume lifted off skin.Trudging through the gloppy, toothed air,The rooms grew full. Rooms that yawnedUnhinged drawers, left in their exhales.

Lift this house in parts: then toss them in light.Open their beefy legs and cut through the sinew.Collect them in swollen embraces. Serve them on platters,Then rinse your mouth. Laughter will shoot from your littered belly.Let it mingle with the low sound of wood. It will smellOf piled scorching days and your eyes will slip to your soles.Accept that only you are made of one piece. Your bodyForever knuckled under this house's muscular palms.